


Spit and Rain

by Eyebrowdancer



Category: The Lighthouse (2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Enemies, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyebrowdancer/pseuds/Eyebrowdancer
Summary: The old wickie knows what he wants. The young wickie doesn't.
Relationships: Thomas Wake & Ephraim Winslow, Thomas Wake/Ephraim Winslow, Thomas Wake/Thomas Howard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85





	Spit and Rain

Thomas spat to disguise the tears and smeared the snot from his face. He may have thrown the first punch, but it was Wake who’d initiated something far worse. From the other side of the room, he glowered at the crumpled man by the table. He had to brace an arm against the wall to prevent from shaking too furiously. Sweat and rafter-filtered rain streaked his bare shoulders and darkened his clothes. Every inch of skin was slick with moisture to such a degree that he could no longer tell the difference between wet and dry. All he knew was wrath.

Wake’s eyes were alight but he remained down, nose bleeding into teeth bared with contempt. Thomas ought to finish him now for the smug sneer that suggested Wake continued to feel superior despite the circumstances. A fresh bolt of rage propelled him forward, pinning the old wickie to the floorboards with a wet thud. He used a forearm to bar across Wake’s throat and he revelled in the sight of that disgusting mouth, that offending, presumptuous mouth as it gurgled and gaped. Pulses of effort from below couldn’t throw Thomas off. His youth and his anger gave him the strength he wished he’d had before Wake’s assault on his dignity.

“You foul beast,” Thomas snarled into his face. “You rotting creature. I’d rather drown than spend another day trapped on this rock with your shameful, lying, filthy carcass.”

Wake grinned up at him with blood-lined gums and convulsed, attempting to laugh around being choked. His slimy fingers writhed up Thomas’ wrists, past his shoulders and around his neck. The slippery hold was slack, almost a caress. Thomas would have vomited into his face had he not been empty from the perpetual intoxication.

“Ye’ve come te like it.” Wake’s voice was as arrogant and derisive as ever. Apart from his encasement within Thomas’ grip, he behaved as if the high ground had never been lost. “Ye’re weak, Thomas. Ye let Winslow slip but ye can’t bring yerself te deliver me fate with yer own frail hands.”

To prove just how frail his hands were not, Thomas tightened his grasp and savoured the glimmer of panic that shot through Wake’s eyes. He couldn’t relish it for long. The delight at finally causing a crack in Wake’s impermeable conceit was interrupted by the sensation of warmth and weight in an unwelcome place. He stumbled upright and away, eyes wide and shining. Wake cackled victoriously on the floor.

“Ye see it now, lad! Ye see yerself clearly for once!”

Thomas glanced down at himself and burned with fiery outrage at the sight of his involuntary desire. It distracted him long enough for Wake to stand, creep closer, and deliver a fierce blow to the side of Thomas’ head before he could react. Thomas collided with the wall and his impact shook the cabinets, sending crockery crashing loose. He clutched his head and stared at Wake, incredulous.

“I’m your dog, am I?” He spat a thread of blood to the side. “You do this to a dog, would you?”

“I’ve beaten dogs, ye worthless mongrel.” Wake directed a sharp kick to Thomas’ shin, effectively flooring him. The second kick connected fast between Thomas’ ribs and he folded around the pain. When he regained his breath, Thomas looked up.

“You try to fuck your dogs, you perverse bastard?” Thomas gasped, forehead plastered to the wood as he twisted to meet Wake’s eye. “You looking for a bitch to rut your crusty pecker into?”

When Wake slowly crouched and balanced on his haunches, tilting his head, Thomas regretted his words. It dawned on him then that he regretted most of his life to this point. If it wouldn’t risk his pride in asking, he’d request that Wake kill him now to curb the pattern of regret that was sure to continue should he live out his life. Instead, he spat again and aimed for Wake’s feet.

“I didn’t expect ye te volunteer, dog.”

The drop in Wake’s voice, the sudden quiet and warmth in his tone, it clenched Thomas’ stomach to hear. He sweated thickly through his forehead and felt a swipe of moisture as Wake’s hand pushed the hair off his face. The fierce heat of agony and waning arousal kept him immobile, despite the flickering urge to leap up and defend what sorry dignity he had left. Wake’s touch was almost tender, sickening.

“No, enough.” Thomas hoisted himself onto an unstable elbow and held out his other arm to wave Wake off. The days of self-poisoning and the well-aimed blows prevented him from gaining any sort of imposing stance and so he settled for appeasing, appealing to Wake’s decency. Not that Thomas believed the man to have much left.

“Ye’d deny yerself a simple comfort, even now? Even now ye need it most?” Wake shook his head in mock pity.

A damp hand slid to cup Thomas’ shivering jaw. Thomas swallowed around his horror and stared into Wake’s resolute eyes, pleading for a change of heart. If only he had known the shining desperation on his face was what encouraged Wake all the more.

He should have anticipated the scrape of Wake’s beard against his chin. He should have expected the putrid breath, the stench of crumbling teeth and potent fluids as they invaded his mouth. The heavy, sodden tongue that probed for his own. The bump of a crooked nose against his cheek. He could never have predicted that the combination of these foul sensations would induce in him the most profound and wrenching need.

Thomas summoned his remaining strength to shove at Wake’s shoulder. This did nothing but gently sway the older man back on his ankles somewhat, breaking the kiss. A glint of amusement in his eyes told Thomas that he was no longer a threat to the man. Of course, a night’s rest and abstaining from drink would restore him to his previous physical superiority, but from now on his place was irrefutably and firmly below Wake’s.

“Please,” he murmured. Wake leaned in, as if curious to hear what his dog had to whimper. “Enough now. We’ll rest, we’ll forget. Enough now.” Thomas made sure to avert his gaze, praying his sincerity would translate through his soft tone, and lowered his head. His ribs stung and his shin throbbed.

Wake placed a fond hand on Thomas’ head, stroking his hair. “Ye’ve decided to behave, have ye?” he muttered calmly. Thomas glanced up and caught a glimpse of Wake’s expression: proud and triumphant and scheming. He was imagining the acts he could finally undertake now his dog had been fully subdued.

“It’s over, come on now. Please.” Thomas shifted in an attempt to sit upright. When Wake moved next, Thomas braced himself for another attack. Instead, Wake wedged his hands under each of Thomas’ armpits and heaved. With the staggered assistance of his drunken legs and the support of the wall at his back, Thomas found his footing. Even slumped around the agony in his ribs and gut, he rose taller than Wake. How had the old man brought him down? Shame and horror thickened the bile corroding his innards. When he dared to glance again into the old man’s eyes, all his thoughts turned to mercy. He couldn’t fight back, he couldn’t escape. His dignity hinged on the direction Wake’s thumb would turn. “Please.”

“There’s no more need for that, lad.” Wake pushed gently at Thomas’ shoulders, trying to ease him upright and fix his twisted collar. The paternal attention sickened Thomas. He let his head fall back against the wall and watched through dripping hair as Wake smoothed his hands over Thomas’ chest and adjusted Thomas’ braces. Fighting Wake’s initial show of tenderness had caused him today’s pain in the first place. It seemed that allowing it was Thomas’ only remaining choice.

“I need rest,” he said. “Let go of me.” The assertive tone didn’t translate to his expression and Wake laughed at the uncertain frown on the young man’s face.

“Go on, then.” Wake didn’t back away but dropped his hands. Chest to chest, confined and damp, Thomas closed his eyes at the sloppy friction as he slid free.

He exaggerated a limp as he stepped away. Over his shoulder, he could see Wake still proud, still sure that he’d bested the young man. Thomas imagined the false triumph Wake was feeling at having forced someone far stronger into submission. He couldn’t wait to rip that triumph away.

On the other side of the room, Thomas collapsed into a chair and let his head hang back. With one eye open only the slimmest gap, he watched Wake and slowly stretched his arm to the floor behind the chair, reaching for a curve of broken dish that had skittered across during the brawl. He folded his fingers around it and slowly eased it up into his pocket.

“Ye should’ve been a woman,” Wake muttered, amused by himself. He staggered to join Thomas, standing in front of him with the unwarranted confidence Thomas was counting on. Building the tension in his muscles, Thomas waited for the perfect lull, the moment when Wake was convinced the young man was at his weakest. Thomas lunged.

The shard missed its target but sliced through Wake’s outer thigh as he leapt aside. He fell with a smack on his front, arms barely catching him. Thomas crashed onto him with all his weight. The piece of dish had flown free so he used his arms to wrap around Wake’s neck from behind and crush the man’s throat. Despite being permanently drunk and disgustingly brittle, Wake thrashed with the power afforded to those close to death. With a timely elbow to Thomas’ nose, he managed to writhe free. When distance allowed it, he turned onto his back and kicked up at Thomas’ face.

The blood-painted young man fell onto him again, hands fierce around his neck. Every kind of moisture spluttered onto Wake’s face from Thomas’ – spit, sweat, rainwater, tears. A frantic struggle that only lasted a minute came to end with Thomas sinking flat onto Wake, sobbing into the neck he had given up trying to wring. When Wake attempted to wriggle free, Thomas slammed a fist into the floorboards beside his head and glowered at him, the whites of his eyes brighter than the moon.

“You asked for this, you old mad bastard,” he hissed, reaching down to dig cruel hands into Wake’s sides. He twisted clumsily, hauling the old man and rolling him back onto his stomach. The snap of his braces as he hurriedly pushed down his trousers sent the first true slice of panic through the old man’s heart.

It was ferocious and inept, causing almost as much dry pain to Thomas’ invading organ as it did Wake’s unprepared body. Thomas ground into him, one hand tight on Wake’s shoulder while the other held Wake’s head still. Thomas breathed fast and sharp into the back of Wake’s neck with every hate-filled thrust. Wake could feel fresh tears dripping hot onto his nape.

Thomas was frantic with the anticipation of relief. Wake’s body was just as fine a receptacle as any, and the past torturous weeks had stolen his memories of a softer, more welcome touch. He laughed tearfully into the back of Wake’s head, knowing that his unsatisfying routine of lonely masturbation had been leading up to this. Of course he wanted Wake. It was both ridiculous and obvious. Would he have spared himself the agony of these last few weeks had he realised this fact sooner?

Before he could waste himself, Thomas pulled free and tugged at Wake’s shoulders. The old man understood, thankfully, and turned onto his back. His eyes were bright with confusion but his silence and compliance told another tale. He was grateful.

Their violent writhing melted into something slower, more languorous. Thomas curled his upper body around Wake’s and pushed into him with painstaking lethargy, his bones tired from fighting. He allowed his face to bury into the warmth of Wake’s neck, mouth pressed into the wet skin but refusing to kiss. Hunched and exhausted, he finally released.

They couldn’t move for several minutes; Thomas paralysed by the fusion of relief and revulsion, Wake trapped beneath the larger body. He squeezed a hand between their torsos and reached for his straining erection. Only then did Thomas bolt away.

No words could make it right but Thomas’ mouth moved in search of them anyway. He gaped at the man on the floor and a surge of devastation pushed him off balance, staggering back a step. Wake leaned up on his elbows and gave up on meeting his own release.

“Ye got what ye wanted, lad.”

Thomas stared, unable to conjure a single coherent thought. All he could hear was the rush of his heartbeat and the roaring storm outside. He watched, numb, as Wake clambered to his feet.

“Now ye’ve got te give me mine.”

Thomas found himself nose to nose with the old man, their pungent breaths poisoning the air between them. He self-consciously shoved his drooping penis into the open fold of his trousers and shook his head. Wake nodded.

How Wake had managed to dominate, persuade, or otherwise lure Thomas into this position was lost on them both. The bed squeaked and the wind howled as Wake eased Thomas wider, sweating between the young man’s parted knees. He had learned from his own pain only fifteen minutes earlier that preparation made a difference. His current attitude no longer favoured the idea of tormenting the young man and he planned to enjoy this moment of shared peace for as long as it could last.

Thomas watched in fear as the old man worked. He winced occasionally and had to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His breath was barely under control. When Wake finally decided they were both ready, Thomas lay flat and put his forearm over his eyes. His gut seized as the violation began and he used his free hand to brace against the headboard railings. If he had nothing to hold on to, he knew he would never survive.

Wake moved in judders and hesitations, easing into each new depth with caution. The care with which he pushed in, checking Thomas’ every reaction, was enough to turn the young man’s stomach. It was one thing to fuck some obedience into the arrogant old man as an act of superiority – it was entirely another to comply under his tender touch, to feel his body rise in gratification, his skin come alive with each rough caress.

“Ye’re weepin’,” Wake murmured, his foul, hot breath brushing through Thomas’ moustache. Revoltingly, he moved the hand gripping Thomas’ side up to his face. He swept away the hot tears that had emerged from Thomas’ clenched eyes. “Are ye hurtin’, lad?”

Thomas refused to answer. He turned his head away and tightened his jaw. Wake’s words were only serving to lift him out of the moment, reminding him of the horror he had fallen into. Ignoring him meant it wasn’t happening. He wasn’t letting this decrepit monster touch him like this.

Wake gave up talking and resumed his hunched, cautious thrusts. A new, unexpected movement fired a burst of heat and tension throughout Thomas’ body. Wake noticed and repeated the action, eliciting another sudden rip of pleasure. Thomas’ hands flew to Wake’s shoulders, arms rigid and pushing their upper bodies apart. He stared up in horrified disgust.

When they moved next, Thomas was unable to prevent himself from pulling Wake into a furious, desperate kiss. Every push repeated that first shock of pleasure and he was soon unravelling in the old man’s arms. Thomas cried in pained relief and bit hard into Wake’s neck, stifling his moans with flesh. When Wake followed, he buried himself deep into the young man’s body and emptied his frustration into the pulsing warmth.

Separation took its time. Wake pulled out, causing Thomas to hiss in discomfort. His entire being begged for sleep and the only thing keeping him awake was the mortified awareness of slick moisture creeping onto the skin of his inner thigh. Wake stood groggily and moved to his own bed.

Thomas watched in silence as the old man ran a shaking hand through his grey mane and settled under the covers. The rumble of laboured snores quickly followed, but Thomas stayed awake until the seeping heat finally dried into his skin, into the sheets. The wailing storm and crashing sea disguised his quiet sobs.


End file.
